


Microseconds

by RunawayBean



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: After 160, Before 159, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gay, Grocery Shopping, Jonathan Sims is Smitten, Kissing, M/M, Martin Blackwood is a Sweetheart, Mentions of Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Snapshots, Sweet, Vignette, they're both smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayBean/pseuds/RunawayBean
Summary: If it were possible, Jon would curl up and hide against Martin forever, pressing his face into the perfect space in the crook of Martin’s neck that seems to have been carved for him and breathing Martin in. He doesn’t mind Martin muttering the same line of poetry under his breath half a billion times because now it sounds so much softer. He doesn’t mind the way Martin looks at him when he thinks Jon isn’t looking, like everything is okay despite it all being rather decidedly the opposite.With someone looking at you like that, you feel as if you really could save the world, and if it’sMartinlooking at him like that…———Regarding vignettes of various happenings in the Scotland safehouse, not that anyone asked for yet another fic like this one.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 23
Kudos: 231





	Microseconds

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello.
> 
> Welcome back to another Magnus Archives fic. This one is just a collection of little vignettes from the Scotland safehouse, set roughly between 159 and 160. The only reason this fic actually exists is because I was not in a fantastic mood yesterday, so I started writing JonMartin fluff to cope and felt a little better. This was completed around midnight, so let's hope it's legible.
> 
> I'd like to thank Spotify's [Jazz for Study](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DX3SiCzCxMDOH?si=00QmijrXSnCD0e4osB1tjg) playlist for setting the backdrop for the majority of this writing process, and Jonny Sims for confirming these two as canon. Also, the whole agnus marchives discord server for indulging me in sorta betaing this for me uwu.
> 
> No warnings apply.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~Nero/Cy

Waking up with a crick in your neck is hardly pleasant in even the best circumstances, but waking up to find the other side of the bed cold and empty is a whole other sort of unpleasant. 

It’s juvenile and stupid, that panic should set so quickly into Jon’s blood at this, but he can’t bring himself to reason with his heart. No matter how many times it happens, it always grips him the same way, cold fingers grabbing his heart and squeezing until he’s wrung out and dry. Nothing left. He’s drained and exhausted in seconds, milliseconds, microseconds, and Jon never wants to get up again because facing the world is even more exhausting. He’s given everything he has, more than all he is and then some, and the very idea of sitting up and then standing makes him feel like he is going to puke. 

But he feels too lonely, empty, and he’s so very afraid of those feelings that he has to stand. He can’t be alone, he doesn’t want to be alone, and he’s upright in record time. His hips crack and his knees click and his ankles each give a satisfying pop, then Jon is off in search of something, anything, someone-

“Good morning, Jon!”

Just hearing Martin’s voice is enough to bring a third of him back to its place in his body, and Jon has to close his eyes at the achingly familiar warmth that bursts to life in his chest. It’s sticky and embarrassing and claws at his lungs with greedy nails of cotton, asking for entrance. But Jon doesn’t let them, only walks forward until he Knows that Martin is right there, and he hides himself in Martin’s chest. It’s reflex at this point, comfortable and practiced, and the warmth that is pressed into Jon’s skin when Martin’s arms wrap around him is so so so wonderful that he wants to cry. 

If it were possible, Jon would curl up and hide against Martin forever, pressing his face into the perfect space in the crook of Martin’s neck that seems to have been carved for him and breathing Martin in. He smells nice, as odd as that seems, but Jon doesn’t mind at all. He’s finding that he doesn’t mind a lot of things, now that they’re here. He doesn’t mind a bit of a draft because it means Martin wears jumpers and lets him borrow some. He doesn’t mind Martin muttering the same like of poetry under his breath half a billion times because now it sounds so much softer. He doesn’t mind the way Martin looks at him when he thinks Jon isn’t looking, like everything is okay despite it all being rather decidedly the opposite. 

With someone looking at you like that, you feel as if you really could save the world, and if it’s _Martin_ looking at him like that… 

Jon lets out a soft hum as Martin’s hand cards through his hair. He’s forgotten where that thought was supposed to end and the train has been derailed. That’s not to say it hadn’t been a pleasant derailment, though. 

“Jon?” Martin whispers against his temple a few moments later. “Are you alright?”

“Better now.” Jon presses closer.

Martin just nods and holds him closer, and this is one of the moments where Jon haphazardly wonders if Martin can read his mind. Childish, perhaps, but Jon would hardly be surprised, no matter how their previous conversation on the subject had gone. 

_(“You can’t read my mind, can you?”_

_Martin pauses where he’s pressing millions of kisses to Jon’s throat and jaw. He hums a small, confused noise before whispering, “Not that I'm aware of. Why?”_

_“You always know.” Jon’s fingers brush over the scar on Martin’s forehead as he plays with Martin’s hair. “Always.”_

_The smile he gets is kind, soft, the same one he’d always known. Warm like cocoa and sweet like it too. “Thanks, Mr I-See-Everything. Nice to know I’m not some useless human.”_

_He knows Martin is joking but he kisses him anyway and whispers, “You could never be useless to me.”)_

It had always seemed like Martin knew what he needed and when he needed it. Back at the archive, all those millennia ago, he had always found tea on his desk right when he’d wanted it and sometimes it may have been sitting there for upwards of half an hour, but Jon still had it when he needed it. That had been one of the reasons he had known something was horribly, horribly wrong when he’d woken up and found Martin isolating himself. That had been the day Jon had vowed to himself, if only subconsciously, that he would save Martin (and the rest of the Institute if he could). 

That had also been the day he realized he didn’t know how he took his tea and… well, suffice it to say that a lot of trial and error happened that day. Seems one can’t just take a wild guess and expect it to be right the first time. On another, completely unrelated note, Jon hates tea with too much sugar with something of a burning passion. These two points are entirely unrelated, I assure you.

“I can hear you thinking from here.” Martin murmurs, lips pressed to where he’d brushed Jon’s too-long hair out of his face to find his hairline. 

Jon huffs something that might have been a laugh. “Was I muttering again?”

“No muttering, just the squeaking of gears.” Martin’s grin is half sweet, half insufferable. 

So, being the logical person he is, Jon kisses it away. This, Jon has learned, is a very reasonable and very effective way to shut Martin up for at least a few minutes, and he’s been using it to his advantage whenever Martin starts pestering him about something Jon doesn’t want to acknowledge at whatever time. He’s pleased to find that this time, it seems to be just as effective as it usually is, and Jon is very pleased with the way Martin hums against his mouth and kisses him again when the first kiss fades.

Finally, after about five minutes of exchanging kisses, Martin breaks it and pulls back to look Jon in the face. In about two seconds, his eyes glitter with concern and Jon realizes that whatever fear he’d felt when he woke up (alone) hadn’t quite all disappeared. Martin cups his cheek softly, hand warm and familiar, and Jon can’t help how he leans into the touch, tilting his head just a little to slot their skin all the more firmly together. 

“Jon,” Martin’s concern is audible now, and it’s almost enough to choke Jon. “Something’s wrong. Can you tell me what it is or do you just… what do you want?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak but not a sound comes out. Frustrated, he clears his throat and tries again. Still nothing. After another two tries, he gives up and avoids eye contact, staring just over Martin’s shoulder at an interesting crack in the drywall. 

But he’d never been able to escape Martin’s concern for long, and the way Martin uses the hand on his cheek to tilt his face up so they can look each other in the eyes is a testament to that. 

“Think you can tell me? Please?”

“I was alone.” And for all the world, it felt like Martin was the Watcher’s avatar instead of Jon. “You weren’t… it was… I…

“Sorry, it’s stupid.” Jon finishes, voice a little clipped. “Sorry.”

“It’s not stupid, Jon.” Martin whispers, “If it upsets you, it isn’t stupid.”

“Well it’s a stupid reason to be upset.” Jon’s tone is sharper than he’d like. “I knew you were still here, but-”

And, well, it seems like Jon isn’t the only one who can kiss his partner to shut him up.

When Martin pulls away, Jon traces the blush in his cheeks between every freckle, watching the way Martin’s eyes search his, and he finds himself just a little breathless for a moment. Martin is pretty. This, of course, is something he’s finding out everyday; when he’s sitting at the counter and Martin’s at the window, swathed in sunlight, or when they’re sharing a meal out of takeout containers and Martin is choking as he tries to stifle a laugh, or when the dimple on his left cheek swallows a handful of his freckles every time he smiles. Martin is very pretty and Jon is so impossibly lucky.

This time when Martin kisses him, it’s on his forehead. He guides Jon’s head down just a little, gentle as always, and his mouth is warm when it presses to his skin. Jon finds that he hums in appreciation, much more fond of this kind of domesticity than he could ever have anticipated. And Martin doesn’t break away for one moment, two, but when he finally does, Jon wishes he hadn’t.

“It isn’t stupid if it upsets you.” Martin says again, giving him that smile that could stop a monster in its tracks-

_(Stop a Monster in his tracks.)_

“You’re allowed to feel things, Jon.” He continues, “That’s part of being human.”

“But I’m not human. Am I.” 

Martin exhales and shakes his head, a small, fond smile gracing his features. “You’re human enough.”

And that’s a thousand times more comforting than Jon had hoped it would be.

————————————

“You’re a bit like a cat, you know.”

Jon is half asleep when he says it, head resting in Martin’s lap where Martin has been threading his fingers through his hair for… who knows how long at this point. His mind is elsewhere and nowhere in particular, and he feels vaguely like he could just fall right to sleep in Martin’s lap, right now. He’d probably be comfortable for the rest of his life if he stayed in Martin’s lap, and he doesn’t exactly hide it anymore.

For the first few days at the safehouse, they’d had long conversations about what they were and who they are and what they are comfortable with and what they aren’t. It had been a dozen beneficial conversations and Jon had even learned a thing or five about himself in the process, along with learning that Martin really liked his long hair. And, just as Jon doesn’t hide how comfortable he is with Martin in general, Martin doesn’t hide the fact that he likes Jon’s hair quite a lot. Once, Jon had fallen asleep with Martin playing with his hair and had woken up six hours later to find him halfway through braiding a section of his hair.

The way Martin had blushed when Jon asked him how long he’d been asleep had been positively adorable and had tasted as sweet as Jon expected.

But in the ‘here’ and the ‘now,’ it is Jon’s turn to blush. 

Martin notices immediately and starts stuttering out half a million apologies all at once and, for a moment, Jon just watches and tries to process what he’d just said. He’s… like a cat? He isn’t quite sure he understands. After all, how could any human compare to the pure divinity of a cat?

Eventually, though he shifts and rolls to face Martin, head still resting in his lap, and he gives him a small smile. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Well!” Martin’s voice is an octave higher than normal. “You like having your hair played with-”

“You like playing with it.”

“Yes, I do, but-”

Jon raises an eyebrow at him and waits for him to collect his thoughts.

Finally, Martin just sighs and says, “You’re cute and your hair is soft and you like having it played with. There. That’s my reasoning.”

Ah.

Well if that’s all it takes to be a cat… 

Jon’s cheeks heat up so quickly he feels a touch lightheaded and, for about a minute and a half, he can’t say anything at all, the words all trapped in his throat. Martin opens his mouth again, probably to launch into another apology or something.

Finally, Jon finds his voice. “You’re cuter.”

Martin’s cheeks go red as cherries and he splutters. Jon snorts and stifles a laugh.

————————————

It’s not Jon’s fault. Really, it isn’t.

Yes, he was the one who opened Martin’s closet and went hunting through his things, and yes, he was the one who found the softest jumper Martin owned and grabbed it, and yes, he was the one who shucked off his own shirt to pull on the one he’d stolen, but none of this was his fault. He was cold, no thanks to the endless drafts working their ways through the slats on the walls and the frames of the windows, and he’d wanted to be comfortable. His usual solution to get comfortable is to interrupt whatever Martin is doing and tuck himself into his side, but… Martin is grocery shopping and so Jon has to make do. 

It is most decidedly not his fault that everything Martin owns seems to be a million times softer and warmer than anything Jon has managed to bring with him to the safehouse. If it’s anyone’s fault, it is Martin’s fault, and so what would he expect Jon to do? _Not_ steal something eventually? Preposterous. 

So that’s how he came to be curled up on the couch with one of the books he’d found on an old bookcase in the room he and Martin are sharing, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and Martin’s jumper. Not the worst situation to be in, not by a long shot, and Jon finds himself falling into a comfortable cycle after he’s turned the fifth page of the book.

By the time he hears keys jiggling in the door and Martin’s call of ‘I’m back,’ Jon has entirely forgotten that anything could possibly be out of the ordinary. He mutters a soft ‘welcome back,’ under his breath and turns the page in his book, adjusting where the stretched collar of the jumper starts to slide off his shoulder. Once it is back in place on top of his shoulder, it promptly decides to jump ship again and Jon adjusts it yet again. Perhaps this is a testament to his dwindling dietary needs… 

“Jon, are you-” Martin makes a choking sound and something soft hits the floor. Jon looks up, but not before he’s placed a finger at his place on the page. For a long moment, Jon just blinks at him as Martin stares at him.

Finally, Jon says, “Do I have something on my face?”

Martin very intelligently says, “Uh.”

Jon waits. Then he sighs and looks back at his book, picking up where he’d left off. It’s some cheesy noir mystery novel, and the protagonist is waxing rhapsodic about the woman he’d most recently saved as a match burned between his fingers. Nothing that would make Agatha Christie falter, but it wasn’t necessarily poorly written either, if not horribly cliched.

Eventually, after Jon has turned another page, he hears Martin say, “You’re uh. You’re wearing my um…”

Immediately, Jon feels as if he’s overstepped or crossed a line or broken some sort of implied, unspoken rule for new couples or whatever it is they are. He feels his cheeks heat up and he brings a hand up to cover them, other hand holding his book, and he says, “I’m sorry. You’re not comfortable with it, I was cold but I will go change.”

“No, like…. It’s just, I can’t believe you’re actually wearing my clothes.”

Jon freezes halfway to standing and nearly drops his book, staring across the room at Martin as if he’d grown another head. Martin is smiling, something small and sheepish and more than a little nervous, and his cheeks are just as flushed as Jon’s feel. He’s fidgeting, weight shifting forward and backward on his feet, and he is just _looking_ at Jon in a way that makes something soft run down Jon’s spine.

Martin gets his voice back again before Jon can even think to open his mouth. “Keep it.”

Slowly, Jon nods, not entirely sure that he hadn’t stepped over some line or broken some rule. The two of them are still new, not truly decided on what they are together, but what Jon does know is that they’re comfortable. He’d thought… he’d assumed that comfortable people could do this but now he’d begun to doubt that his assumption had been correct.

But if there’s any indication that he’d been correct, it’s the smile that is most decidedly staying on Martin’s face, even as Jon feels more and more awkward by the second. It’s ridiculous, that his cheeks should feel this hot, and he’s sure he looks like some sort of Archivist tomato or something like that by this point. This, on top of everything else happening in this moment, makes him turn his head and look vaguely off to the side and at the floor. He can’t look. He’s simply too embarrassed.

The floor creaks as Martin walks over and the couch dips with his weight as he sits down, but Jon still does not look up. He doesn’t look up until he feels Martin’s hand brush through his hair ever so impossibly gently. His hair had gotten longer, over the years, and now that they’re stuck in the safehouse and the majority of the reading he is doing is books or unofficial, he doesn’t keep his hair as stubbornly raked back anymore. A couple of days ago, as Jon had been fading into a cloud of bliss in Martin’s lap, Martin had paused in his ministrations to Jon’s hair and said something about liking how long it had gotten.

And, because he’s Martin, he’d refused to listen when Jon slurred something about how staticky it is and how much he feels like he'd been drowned when it gets wet at all.

He’s Martin, and Martin is a kind, wonderful soul.

The collar of the jumper slips off his slight shoulders again, and Martin fixes it before Jon could even have a hope of fixing it himself. The brush of Martin’s fingers against his skin sends goosebumps down his arms and Jon hums softly, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans into the hand still carding through his hair. This moment is nice, warm, familiar. So very familiar.

“Say you’ll keep it.”

Jon exhales for as long as it takes for his lungs to complain about the lack of oxygen before he rasps, “Fine. Only because you’re petting my hair.”

Martin chuckles and scoots closer so their thighs are firmly pressed against one another. “Good to know I have a way to get you to do what I say.”

“Fuck off.” Jon slurs.

And Martin laughs again, louder and raspier and unapologetic this time, and Jon’s heart skips a beat or four in the process.

————————————

“Jon-”

“No.”

Martin groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jon, come on.”

“I already gave you my answer, Martin.” Jon deadpans, not looking up from his book. “And my answer was ‘no’.”

“Oh, come on, please?” By the tone of Martin’s voice, Jon should very much not look up now. 

“Again, I’m giving you the same answer.” Jon says simply, “I don’t need to do this.”

“Going into the village and going grocery shopping with me isn’t going to put you or anyone else in mortal peril, Jon.” Martin says into a wall, thumping his forehead against it.

“But what if it does?”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“But what if it _does?”_

Martin groans again and says, “It _won’t,_ now stop being a baby and come grocery shopping.”

“I’m not being a-” Jon stops himself before he can finish that sentence. He takes a moment to think through his words before saying, “I am not acting like a baby. I’m being immature, certainly, but a baby?”

“You know that’s not my point.” Martin walks over and stands behind the sofa, leaning down and pressing his face into Jon’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to become a hermit.”

Jon rolls his eyes but he won’t deny how he leans into Martin’s touch when it finds his other shoulder. “This won’t turn me into a hermit.”

“Let me rephrase that: I won’t let you become a hermit.”

And before he knows it, gravity is disagreeing with him and Martin is picking him up like he weighs little more than a bundle of toothpicks. Jon squeaks in a way that isn’t unlike how a door would sound if the hinges hadn’t been probably oiled in a while, and he clings to Martin like a koala, eyes wide as dinner plates. His stomach does a series of flips and he stares at where he had been sitting mere moments before, where he’d dropped his book.

He can’t find it in himself to speak until Martin has set him down on a stool in the ‘front hall’ area and is slipping on his own shoes. Numbly, Jon puts on his shoes, knowing full well that he isn’t getting out of this now, and he follows Martin out when prompted to. In just barely a few minutes’ time, they’re in the pickup; Martin is in the driver’s seat and Jon is in the passenger’s seat. Once his seatbelt is done up and Martin has started the pickup (after a try or two that ended up failing), Martin guides the pickup off down the dirt road toward the tiny village nearby.

As it had been happening since they got to the safehouse, they settle into a comfortable silence. Jon listens to Martin hum under his breath the whole drive, closing his eyes and reminding himself that they’re both here, that everything is okay, that they’re okay. It seems to be a remarkably good way to calm his nerves about going into public and, when Martin’s parked the pickup outside of a grocery store that Jon doesn’t recognize, he climbs out with a renewed sense of…

Serenity isn’t the right word, but it’s the only thing Jon can really come up with as of right now, and it only seems to be more correct when Martin laces their fingers together before they go inside the store. Jon instantly feels more grounded, and he gives Martin a tiny, barely there smile as a means of thanking him for it.

Shopping is dull. It’s so painfully dull that Jon wishes even more that Martin had left him back at the safehouse with his cliche noir mystery novel because nearly anything would be more interesting than slightly moldy cauliflower and melting spinach leaves at this point. But alas, Jon can’t bring himself to ask to leave, so he resigns himself to his fate and starts following Martin around the store like a puppy. It isn’t the worst of fates, all things considered, but Jon is hopelessly, horribly bored in about two seconds flat.

So he goes about trying to make it more interesting. As a sort of experiment, he ‘accidentally’ pokes Martin in the side and, when that doesn’t get any sort of reaction beyond a ‘yes, Jon?’ and a ‘what is it?’ Jon starts actively poking him again. And again. And again. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for everyone else, it doesn’t work. None of it works, not a single poke gets any sort of reaction from Martin beyond a soft hum or a question asking after what’s wrong and, unfortunately, this means that Jon has lost one of the things he’d thought of to make this a little more interesting.

Take into account that this list is not all that long, nor is it all that comprehensive, so Jon is soon grasping at straws desperately.

This is certainly not helped when Martin pauses to have a pleasant little conversation with the cashier. At this point, Jon can almost feel his brain cells liquefying, and he wants to either start screaming, fall to the floor face down, or fall to the floor face down and _then_ start screaming. But he manages to maintain his self control and simply sets about doing nothing at all while he waits for Martin to stop his ‘I am so very polite and interested in literally everything you will ever say’ routine.

A small part of Jon is jealous that his undivided attention isn’t on him, which is stupid because he’s neither a jealous person, nor does he ever think Martin would leave him without talking to him. And, well, Martin had made it very clear how he felt about Jon on their long walk out of the Lonely and to the safehouse. He’d babbled and blubbered his way over the border to Scotland, and Jon had held his hand through all of it and kissed his tears away with nervous lips, because he’d been unable to string a coherent sentence together. Emotion had always had that effect on him, gripping his throat and choking him of all his words.

Thankfully, the way his eyes had swam with tears and the way his smile had felt like it would have split his face in two was enough for Martin, because he’d woken up with Martin’s arms wrapped snugly around him. 

“Jon.”

Ah.

He snaps out of his reverie and looks up from where he had apparently been staring at some trashy romance novel or another. He blinks at Martin.

Martin smiles fondly at him and gestures to the four shopping bags on the counter. “Mind helping me carry these?”

Jon definitely doesn’t mind.

He is very thankful for the truck, however, and he spends the whole drive back to the safehouse complaining about how Martin was too kind for his own good and how he’d let the cashier drone on and on about this or that thing. Upon discovering she’d been waxing rhapsodic about some random reality television celebrity, Jon snorts abruptly and doubles over, half coughing and half laughing as Martin tries to relay bits and pieces of the conversation that are worth noting. He even includes impersonations where he can, eyes shining with such a light that Jon would guess he’d stolen the stars and put them in his eyes.

And it feels good to laugh, it really really does. It feels good to have these light moments, where they can feel at least a little normal for at least a little bit of time. Short things, these moments, but always worthwhile.

_(Microseconds? Yes, microseconds sound about right.)_

————————————

“I’m having a brain fart. Which way is left again?”

Martin talks in his sleep and it is the single most adorable thing that Jon has ever been witness to. His eyes are still shut, his face still (mostly) remaining in that sweet, soft, peaceful expression, and mouth moving slowly and heavily enough to slur his speech. It’s a miracle Jon has any idea what he’s saying in the first place, but it’s a miracle Jon is far more than willing to take.

Now, Martin’s nose is scrunched up like a bunny’s might, and he’s… driving? Jon isn’t quite sure _what_ Martin is driving, but based on his rather extensive talk of directions and such, it’s fairly safe bet to say that he’s driving in some way. 

So Jon answers the question: “Do the ‘L’ trick with your fingers they taught us in second grade.”

Martin snuffles in protest in his sleep and bumps his face against the side of Jon’s head. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, still stubbornly asleep, and for just a moment, Jon wonders if that will be it for the night. Just a few lines about directions and steering, and that’s it? Seems rather uneventful for any of the sleep-talking dreams he’d witnessed. So he waits, falling silent and still and allowing Martin’s subconscious to take him where it needs to go, whether that be left or not-left.

After a quiet few moments, Martin slurs something along the lines of, “Dear, that’s a deer. Deer pothole.”

Jon barely muffles his snort in time, turning his head and mashing his face into his pillow hard enough that it’s difficult to breathe for a moment or two. This almost sets off a panic response, but Jon lifts his head before that happens-

_(“Not alone?”_

_“No, not alone.”)_

And he looks up at Martin’s still, sleeping face. For a long, long time, he just lies there and looks at him. Looks at Martin.

He just looks.

When he can finally work up the courage, he brings his hands up and cups Martin’s cheeks and brushes his thumbs reverently over every single freckle on his face. He’s barely touching him, fingers quivering nervously and moving at a snail’s pace so as to not even chance waking him up, but to Jon it feels like they’d possibly never been closer. Call him sentimental if you like, but he quite likes just lying here in silence with Martin.

For a moment, Jon wonders about falling asleep to the rhythm of Martin’s breathing. This lasts until-

“Love you…”

Everything freezes.

That is, until the tiniest, most sleepy smile in the world graces Martin’s sleeping face and he mumbles one word, one syllable.

“Jon.”

And if Jon cries, that’s his business with the sheets and the fabric of Martin’s shirt and no one else’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end of the fic!
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, drop a kudos and maybe a comment telling me what you think! If you want to yell at/with me, you can find me on [twitter,](https://www.twitter.com/RunawayBean_hq) [tumblr,](https://runawaybean.tumblr.com) and my [writing blog.](https://runawaybean.wordpress.com/2020/03/07/microseconds/) And, of course, if you have any questions, then feel free to check out my [curiouscat.](https://curiouscat.me/RunawayBean)
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> Nero/Cy~


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